Sleeping Giants
by Mrs.Monster
Summary: Sherlock drives Molly to the very fringes of her sanity while hiding out in her apartment after faking his death. So what does she do? Laughs her way through it. Or tries to, at any rate. Post season two.


_**(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to **__**Sherlock**__**, no copyright infringement intended. **_

_**Author's Note: Hey, kiddos. So, you know all that heavy stuff that goes along with **__**Teeth in the Grass**__**? Well, sometimes those heavy feelings make my brain bleed. As a result, I sometimes accost lifelesslyndsey for random prompts, and this one shot is the result. They are: chicken wings, wet wipes, Splenda, and hat shopping. I sometimes hate her. Not really. Much love. And so here we are: this is kind of like a temporary…balm for my blistering and weeping frontal lobe. So this is nothing too horribly deep, just a little post-Reichenbach… humor? That's right. Reichenbach humor. **_

…_**Trust me.)**_

_**Sleeping Giants**_

The pufferfish really was an interesting creature.

A member of the Tetraodontidae family, they're generally believed to be the second-most poisonous vertebrates in the world. In some regions the flesh of the pufferfish was considered a delicacy, if prepared correctly; however certain internal organs, such as the liver, were highly dangerous if ingested. They had a unique, if slow, form of locomotion, combining the caudal, pectoral, anal and dorsal fins, making it highly maneuverable. Puffers spawned after a male would slowly push females to the water's surface; the eggs were buoyant and usually hatched after four days, give or take.

Sherlock Holmes knew all of this because he'd once solved a murder where the victim had been killed by purposefully ill-prepared _fugu- chiri_, or puffer soup. He'd retained the information in his hard drive just in case he should ever need it again, but now he was curled up in a lumpy chair in an unfamiliar flat pondering whether he should delete this information.

He brought his knees closer to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, grimacing at the scratchy dressing gown that he was currently wearing. Puffers really were unique, but what were the odds he'd come across another murder of the like? Then again, what if he deleted it and he himself were served tainted _fugu-chiri_? Sherlock reminded himself that he didn't even like the dish, and in a case where that may happen (no matter how unlikely), the information wouldn't be useful anyway, as he'd be dead shortly after realizing what was killing him.

Deleted, then.

Now, onto the spider collection retained in his mind palace. Sherlock decided to begin with the _Missulena bradleyi_, or the Eastern Mouse Spider-

That train of thought was cut short by something colliding with side of his head. Sherlock looked up sharply to see a soaking wet Molly Hooper standing just inside the door, clearly agitated if her heaving chest, flared nostrils and clenched fists were anything to go by.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock asked. "I asked you for a cup of tea ages ago."

Molly closed her eyes, counted to ten, and reminded herself that it had been her idea that he live with her while hiding from the world, pretending to be dead.

"I went to get you your _stupid _Splenda. Which, by the way, only _one _grocery store carries, halfway across the city." She whipped off her dripping jacket and hung it on a hook in the small foyer and then stalked through the sitting room to the kitchen.

Sherlock glanced down at the yellow cellophane wrapped box that lay in his lap. Oh, right. All she had on hand was plain _granulated _sugar, which wouldn't do at all. He picked up the box and scratched at his arm through the sleeve of the _wrong _dressing gown. He much preferred silk, so much more pleasant against the skin, but of course all of his own belongings were still in his flat at Baker Street. Sherlock rose from the uncomfortable chair gracefully and followed Molly into her tiny kitchen.

He watched from his seat at the table as she dripped rainwater all over the linoleum while she filled the kettle with jerky motions and flicked it on. She brought a cup from the cabinet, slamming it onto the counter before rummaging for a strainer. Molly measured the loose leaves of Earl Grey with slightly shaking hands and poured once the kettle had boiled. She set it with force in front of Sherlock on her small honey maple table, a bit of the scalding liquid sloshing over the edge of the blue cup. It had been part of a set that she'd gotten from her mother two Christmases ago and as such she didn't bother taking great care with them. Her mother was a meddlesome woman who would try a Saint's nerves.

Molly fished a teaspoon from the drawer and tossed it onto the table next to the mug and leaned back against the counter, watching Sherlock unwrap the _stupid _yellow box, withdraw two small packets, shake them daintily before ripping them open and upending the white powdery substance that tasted _just like regular sugar _into his tea. She crossed her arms over her chest as he stirred slowly, seemingly intent on the swirling, steaming liquid before looking up at her.

"Milk?"

She nearly screamed. They were out of milk, and there was no way in _hell _she was going out again, at night in the middle of a bloody rainstorm. Instead she stalked to the table where he was looking at her impatiently and upended his _stupid _tea into his lap. Molly smiled a little at his shout, and then went to bed.

**..**

Pulling her jacket closer around her, Molly crossed her arms, white plastic bag carrying dinner for two hanging from the crook of her elbow and bouncing off her leg in time with her steps. She knew that Sherlock would have a fit, but she'd gotten one of her favorite foods that night, something she hadn't had in the entire two months he'd been staying with her. It was an _uncivilized _food, according to Sherlock.

Well, he was just going to have to get in touch with his inner caveman, and deal.

Molly juggled her oversized purse, take away bag and keys as she unlocked her front door and pushed her way in. The flat was dimmed save the glow of her laptop, which Sherlock seemed to have confiscated again. He was slumped in her chair, computer balancing on his knees, typing furiously. She let the door fall shut, dropped her orange purse on the floor followed by her jacket.

"Good, you've brought dinner," Sherlock said, not looking up. "I'm starving."

Molly forced a smile and stalked toward the kitchen. "Good."

With amusement she watched his eyebrows climb his forehead as he settled into the kitchen chair opposite her. "What is this?" he asked, deep voice drawling.

"Chicken wings," Molly told him, upending the plastic bag sending packets of wet wipes cascading onto the table between them.

"But-"

"Just shut up and eat." Molly tore into her chicken with her fingers, drawing a disgusted look from her dining companion. Sherlock rose with a small sniff from the table and returned moments later with a knife and fork, and stared down at the food on his plate, slowly dripping red sauce to puddle below, as if it had personally offended him in some way. Slowly and methodically he shredded white meat off the bone, creating two separate piles, before spearing a strip of chicken onto the tines of his fork and bringing it to his mouth.

She couldn't help it, honestly, she couldn't. Molly began giggling, closing her lips tight around her mouthful of food, only pausing to swallow before she began to laugh outright.

"_What _is so funny?" Sherlock questioned, scooping another bite of chicken onto his fork, glowering at her.

"It's just –oh _God_- of course _you _would find a… a… proper way to eat –_ha-ha!_ - one of the messiest foods on the planet!"

"Oh shut up," he grumbled, flicking one of the packets of wet wipes at her. It bounced off the tip of her nose, and this just made Molly laugh harder. She didn't seem to be able to stop; the stress of the past few months and _Sherlock _seemed to have finally caught up with her, making her go entirely mad. Her face burned red and tears of mirth slid down her cheeks as she pushed her plate away and dropped her head onto her folded arms, shoulders shaking.

**..**

There were several things Molly knew for certain; the sky was blue, the earth was round, the corpses of unsavory criminals were quite pose-able when one was bored for hours on end in a morgue, and she absolutely hated hat shopping. The only thing worse than hat shopping alone, was hat shopping with her mother, which was what she was currently doing.

Molly sat primly in a red club chair while Elizabeth Hooper stood in front of a mirror, trying on hat after hat after hat. Apparently, she was going on holiday with a new _gentleman_, and had to have just the right one to wear to the beach. The look on her mother's face when Molly suggested that she just pick up a straw hat somewhere and call it done would have been humorous, if it weren't for the fact that she found herself in her current predicament. Completely bored out of her mind, Molly pulled out her mobile, hoping to amuse herself for the hours she knew they'd be here by playing with the crossword app she'd installed just the other day. When she unlocked the screen, Molly saw that she had seven text messages from _'Steven'_, aka Sherlock, from the mobile she'd purchased and left at the flat for emergencies. Sighing, Molly checked them already knowing that nothing was wrong. Probably. Unless he'd blown up her flat with one of his experiments. Then he wouldn't have to fake his death; she'd do the job herself and perform the autopsy just for funsies.

11:00 a.m.: _Where are you?_

11:03 a.m.: _We're out of crisps._

11:07 a.m.: _Molly, where are you? _

11:10 a.m.: _Molly?_

11:11 a.m.: _Molly?_

11:12 a.m.: _Where did you move the coffee to? _

11:15 a.m.: _Never mind. I found it._

With her eye slightly twitching, Molly powered off her phone, and looked over at her mother who was trying on a bright blue hat with purple flowers on the brim. Shuddering, she rose from her chair and began stalking around the small store, doing her best not to sneer at the collection of ugly, gaudy hats. Hands clasped behind her back, she moved to the wall that held the men's selections and perused the offerings. Then, on the top shelf, she saw something that made her break out into a wicked grin. She had to jump a little to reach it, but she snatched the hat and tucked it under her arm, moving back toward the club chair, a little more contented than she had been.

**..**

There were several things Sherlock knew for certain; too many to count, really, but at the moment the thing that stood out the most was that Molly wasn't home. Neither was she at work, nor getting the shopping, so _why _she wasn't at home, Sherlock didn't know, and that bothered him greatly. It was the _not knowing something_ that bothered him, he assured himself, not the fact that it was _Molly _he didn't know about, not in the least.

He'd like to think that he knew just about everything there was to know about the young pathologist; her height (five feet two inches), her weight (one hundred and eighteen pounds), her favorite food (the disgusting barbequed chicken wings), movie (surprisingly _An American Werewolf in London_), color (blue), actor (Andrew Lincoln) and on it went, making up the small room in his mind palace, brass plate on the door reading "Dr. Molly Hooper".

But none of that mattered at the moment. What mattered was that she _wasn't here_, and he _didn't know _where she was. He'd texted a number of times from the mobile she'd left for emergencies (as if he would have an _actual _emergency), but she'd never responded.

Sherlock's constantly racing mind often tended to get ahead of its self and get carried away, and he was dangerously close to that state at that very moment. What if someone had discovered that she was hiding him? What if _Mycroft _had uncovered this information, and had her taken? Sherlock knew very well what his older brother was capable of. But what if it were someone even more _unsavory _than Mycroft Holmes? Sherlock had made a considerable number of enemies over the course of his career, many of whom were still gunning for his head. If one of them had caught on to him and Molly's little scheme, things wouldn't be pretty. They could have her right now, doing unspeakable things to his pathologist; she could be tortured, beaten, tormented-

_Or she could be out hat shopping with her mother, _he thought as she walked through the door. His eyes flicked over her form, from the white box under her arm to the lines of strain around her eyes, and immediately picked up on where she'd been and what she'd been doing that late morning and early afternoon. Molly slammed the door shut behind her, and Sherlock refocused on the TV, as if that's what he'd been doing the entire time she'd been gone.

"And how is the lovely elder Mrs. Hooper?" he asked, and Molly sighed as she hung her purse by the door.

"In top form as usual." Molly walked around the couch which was positioned with its back toward the door, to the chair Sherlock was sitting in, and dropped the box in his general direction. She'd been aiming for his lap, but with his legs pulled up as they were it bounced off his left knee and fell to the floor. "And long may she rave," she finished, deciding to leave the box where it was before collapsing onto the dark brown couch. She slid out of her jacket and tossed it on top of the coffee table before curling up on her side into the soft cushions. Molly pulled an old throw blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around herself, content to sleep off the depressed mood an afternoon with her mother always put her in.

"You dropped your box on the floor," Sherlock told her, an absent tone in his voice.

"I got it for you." Molly was zoning out on the stupid program he'd set on the screen.

Sherlock eyed the box laying on the floor next to his chair, and then looked to Molly, who seemed a bit down if he was reading things right. He didn't like it when she was sad; she made tea so much better when she was happy, and she didn't seem to get quite so upset over his… idiosyncrasies when she was in a good mood. He picked up the box, untied the brown string and then scowled down at the contents. That _stupid _hat. He had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue about Molly's horrible taste in headwear, but then his mind caught up and processed all of the available information and he realized that she'd meant it as a joke, to brighten both their moods.

He supposed that he could admit (to himself) that he was, at times, quite boorish and cantankerous. And as he'd admitted to J-… his friend the doctor when they'd first met that he was a difficult man to live with. Again, he eyed the woman lying on the couch, wrapped up in a ratty blanket, light brown hair spilling over her face and shoulders, who'd seemingly lost all interest in the joke she'd purchased. _Well… that just won't do, now will it? _Scowling a bit with distaste, Sherlock removed the _ear _hat, settled it on his head and then tossed the empty box at Molly.

The box landed on her head. Molly knocked it away and looked up, immediately dissolving into laughter. Sherlock was sitting in the chair, dressed in the T-shirt and jeans she'd purchased him after he'd come to live here, the deerstalker she'd bought today settled on his head. He looked completely ridiculous, disgruntled expression firmly in place.

"Oh my- oh my God. Take it- just _take it off_. I can't- can't stand it," Molly spluttered, face turning red.

Sweeping the hat off his head, Sherlock tossed at her fighting a grin of his own. The hat collided with her face, rolling off to settle on her arm as Molly fought to get herself under control. Sherlock stood from his chair, full blown smile on his face as Molly clutched at her stomach. In that moment he was struck with just how… _pretty_ she was. She wasn't aesthetically pleasing in any of the traditional ways, with her awkward demeanor, small mouth and bad jokes, but on occasion, like when she'd been helping him plot his own "death" and right in this moment, there was a mischievous glimmer in her hazel eyes that made his middle tighten unexpectedly. But then again, when had he ever been a traditional man? It was only logical that the woman he'd eventually (inevitably, he added to himself) be drawn to would be untraditional as well. His smile faded away as his thoughts went down this path, and he looked down at Molly who was now hiccupping uncontrollably, extremely red in the face.

"Control yourself, woman," he said, turning from her toward the kitchen. "I'm going to make something to eat, are you hungry?"

Molly fell off the couch in surprise. Literally.

"I'm sorry, you're _what_?" she asked from her spot on the floor between the couch and the coffee table.

"You heard me perfectly," Sherlock said, now hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. "Are you hungry or not?"

"Well…yes."

"Right." And he disappeared into the kitchen.

Molly picked herself up off the floor, rubbing her now sore butt, looking at the spot he'd just vacated. _What in the hell had that been all about? _she asked herself, settling back onto the couch, the hat beside her. Molly shrugged and picked up the remote from where it was laying on the coffee table. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to question it; a pleasant Sherlock was much easier to live with than an unpleasant one.

**..**

Sherlock had decided that he wanted scrambled eggs, but unfortunately for him, the eggs and Molly's skillet, he'd forgotten that he was cooking a short few minutes after he'd begun. Instead, he stood immobile in front of the stove, thinking about the look Molly had had on her face while she'd been laughing. It wasn't something that was often seen, and Sherlock came to the conclusion, after mulling it over for a few minutes, that that was a terrible shame. There was _happiness _and a _glow _about her when she was smiling with true amusement, not just the weak little self-depreciating mimic that was normally there.

He didn't even register the smoke that was now billowing around his face, or the fire alarm that was shrieking a few feet away until Molly rushed into the kitchen.

"_Sherlock! _What are you doing?" she asked, and he looked down in surprise at the smoking skillet. Molly rushed toward the stove and grabbed it, accidentally knocking into him in the process. She dropped the ruined skillet into the sink, and looked at him over her shoulder. "Turn off the smoke alarm, I can't reach it."

He complied, easily reaching up and fiddling with the shrieking contraption until it stopped, and he turned to find Molly opening the window above the sink, standing on her tip-toes to reach it.

It happened without his permission, his feet moving of their own accord across the kitchen until he was reaching for Molly, turning her around and pressing his mouth to hers.

Molly squeaked against his lips with surprise, hands frozen in the air by his shoulders, and then events caught up with her. Sherlock was kissing her.

_Sherlock _was kissing _her_.

Full on the mouth, moving his lips against her still immobile lips. _Oh. _Yes, she really should start kissing him back before he got the wrong impression. Moving her slightly shaking hands to his shoulders, Molly began returning the kiss.

Sherlock felt Molly melt out of her surprise, and she began to respond to his attentions. Lust was throbbing, deep inside of him, so intense was the feeling that he knew he'd never felt anything like it; like a sleeping giant roaring awake from its slumber. As he pulled Molly close to him, pressing her against the counter, pressing himself against her, he thought of the all of the distractions he'd looked for over the years, and wanted to laugh at himself. Her body was small, and warm, and pliable under his hands and nothing, not the cases, not the drugs, _nothing_ compared with this. He'd always thought that women and intimacy would be a hindrance and for the first time Sherlock would wholly and emphatically admit that he was _wrong. _

He pulled from the kiss with a gasp, letting oxygen rush to his lungs and panted, looked down at Molly. Her arms were around his neck and his were around her waist, and her eyes were the brightest hazel as she stared up at him, one of her hands fluttering to her lips. Sherlock kissed the small scar on right on the tip of her chin that he'd always noticed but never bothered to find out how she'd gotten it. He wanted her; he wanted to _take _her, to claim her, make her _his_, and he wanted to be _hers _in return, and it really was a strange feeling for him.

He could argue it, rationalize it, and try to find the logic behind it all he wanted. He could say that it was being stuck here, around her for so long, with nothing else to occupy his mind that was making him think and act this way. He could say that it was his body fighting for what it had been denied for so long. He could, but he didn't want to. For once in his life, Sherlock did not want to get to the root of this problem. He wanted to let it take over, he wanted it to fester and seep into his mind like a virus that he couldn't, and wouldn't, cure.

"I'm going to take you to the bedroom now," he informed her, barely waiting for her nod before he lifted her up. Her legs wrapped around his hips, and Sherlock could feel her right up against him, the warmth of her body calling out to his own.

Sherlock tossed Molly onto the mattress and she landed with a soft bounce. He began systematically disrobing, unbuttoning and pulling clothing out of the way. Molly was still staring at him, propped on her elbows now.

"Your clothes," he told her, his voice a low growl, "take them off."

As he'd expected, Molly blushed deeply but complied.

And then he was tumbling them back, Molly's head resting on the soft pillow, darkness of her brunette hair contrasting with the stark white case. Their lips came together again; flesh pressing against flesh and Sherlock tangled his fingers in that dark hair reveling in the faint scent of lemon juice that he knew she used to rinse away the smell of death.

Remembering back to a series of conversations Mycroft had inflicted upon him when he'd turned fifteen, Sherlock knew that he was supposed to prepare her. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Molly, and this sudden bout of _caring _had him so off course that he was nearly reeling with it. Snaking his hand from Molly's hair down over her breasts, thoroughly enjoying the way she arched into his hand when he brushed it across the very tip. Even further down over the small expanse of her flat stomach and finally to the place where the warmth that her entire body exuded kindled into a smoldering, sultry heat.

He was distracted from the fact that she was already so slick and _ready _by her small hand circling him and _squeezing _gently. Nothing could have compared him for the difference that a soft feminine hand in lieu of his own would make, and the feeling was so great he almost couldn't stand it. Instead he batted her hand away, took himself in his own and entered her with one long, smooth thrust. The small sound that came from her mouth followed by the delicate moaning of his name caused something inside of his chest to swell. He was momentarily concerned, a part of his mind branching off to scan over biological causes, before he discovered that it was the for so long foreign to him _sentiment_.

The stink of burned eggs was still heavy in the air as Sherlock began to move slowly, tentatively. A note of surprise hung in the back of his mind that his first time was with Molly Hooper, but as he pulled away slightly to look down at her he realized that it wouldn't have been the same with anyone else. She was the only woman, besides Mrs. Hudson, that he trusted, with his life, apparently. Her eyes were closed; not squeezed shut, just closed as if she were trying to savor this moment with her other senses. Brushes of a blush swept across her cheeks, and her lips were slightly parted, still emitting those small mewls of contentment. The blush from her cheeks spread down her neck and across her chest, nearly matching the pink shade of her nipples.

A tightening in his middle warned him that he wasn't going to last much longer. He wasn't sure how to tell if she was close to her breaking point- the last thing he wanted was to… jump the gun and leave her unsatisfied.

"Molly, are you-" he began to ask, but as he began speaking Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and simultaneously bit down on her bottom lip and let out what would have been a rather loud moan had she not tried to muffle it. That answered that question, then.

Sherlock increased his pace, desperate for the friction that would drive him over the edge. Gripping her hip with one hand, his other rested on the pillow next to her face. He was panting himself now, sounds coming from his mouth that he'd never made before in his life. The _feeling _that was coursing through him; not just the emotions that were throwing him for a loop but the physical… it was beyond words, and for Sherlock Holmes, that was saying something.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone as he spoke. "Open your eyes."

Molly did, the action looking nearly hesitant, and the moment that blue met hazel, he broke. Or at least that's what it felt like; like his internal organs had shattered into a million tiny pieces and left him wonderfully dazed and slightly numb in some places. Sherlock buried his face in her hair for a moment before rolling heavily to the side, pulling a rumpled sheet over both of them. He looked to Molly, who hadn't said a coherent word the entire time, trying to figure out what she was thinking. His brain, though, was nearly completely quiet for the first time he could remember. Just as he was about to break down and ask, she beat him to it.

"Dear God," Molly said, voice winded. "I've just discovered that your voice is _literally _orgasmic. That is so not fair." And then she giggled, curling into his side while he absently wrapped an arm around her shoulders, brow furrowed. His voice? Sherlock cast his mind back over their encounter, realizing that Molly had reached her pleasure just as he began to ask if she were close to that point. He kissed the side of Molly's head and the grin that spread over his face would have been called stupid had anyone other than Sherlock Holmes been wearing it.

* * *

**Author's Note: And there you have it. I don't actually know how many stores in London carry Splenda, I'm assuming all of them, but for the story's sake, I said one. I also thought that Sherlock was rather OC in this story, but hey, I ran with it. **

**I hope you enjoyed reading it, but if not hey, at least you learned a few things about pufferfish. I'm nothing if not educational. **

**Leave a review, and I'll have Teeth in the Grass updated within the next few days. Until then!**

**Mrs. Monster**


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